The Malice of Unnatural Death:

by Michael Jecks

  Waking, he looked about him sadly.

  Walter had bought this place only a few years ago. At the time he had thought that his life was going to change, as he had repeatedly told Robinet over the last days until his death. Well, now it had changed.

  Thinking about that sad little body lying before the door in Langatre’s undercroft made him feel the sadness again. That man had been his only real friend for many years. When Robinet arrived in Exeter, the two of them had immediately felt the bond between them renewed, as though they had never parted. And, now they were parted for ever.

  He left the place with a few coins from the purse on the window-ledge, walked the hundred or so yards to Cooks’ Row, keeping a wary eye open for anyone who showed a little too much interest in him, and ordered himself a good meat pie. Eating it slowly, he went round the back to the little alehouse at the corner of two alleys. It was a rowdy place even at this time in the morning, and he knew that no one in there would be looking for him. The only people who could be on his tail would stand out too distinctly in here. It was the sort of place he could enjoy a form of anonymity.

  Where had the murderous bastard got to? He had thought he could get some answers from Michael, but the interference of that pathetic imitation sorcerer had put paid to that. If he’d been able, he could have silenced Langatre, but there was no telling what Ivo would do while he was making the man shut up. Anyone with a stout staff was a threat to be considered when his loyalty was in doubt. And there was certainly no love between him and Ivo. No, none.

  Where was John? With any luck he had fallen into a ditch and his decomposed remains would be found late in the summer. But there was no way to tell whether he was dead or not. Better to assume he was still alive for now, and find him. There was nothing he wanted more than to see John’s head on a spike outside the city wall as a warning to all those who dared kill his friends.

  If he didn’t know where John was, perhaps the Watch had been luckier. A beadle could have stumbled over his corpse in the night. And if he hadn’t, a beadle could maybe tell him what the city’s officers had been doing overnight to hunt the bastard down.

  He drained his cup and left the alehouse quietly by the little side door. Soon he was walking down the alley where Ivo and his mother lived, and when he came to it he stood in a doorway some distance away and surveyed the street, making sure that the measly little prickle hadn’t thought to protect himself with a couple of roughs who would look for him in case he returned again.

  No. There was nothing. Confident that the alley itself held no threat to him, he sauntered to the door and knocked.

  It opened quickly, and Ivo stood gaping before him. A hand planted firmly on his breast gave him the hint, and he walked backwards, still silent.

  When the door was shut, Ivo’s mother, who had been huddled by the fire, turned and scowled. ‘What do you want here?’

  ‘Mother, I only want to learn what happened yesterday. Ivo? Did they get him?’

  ‘No. After you disappeared we spent the afternoon searching high and low for him, but none of us had any luck. Half the time the coroner seemed to want us to find you more than the stranger.’

  ‘Fortunately no one did, though. What are they going to do today?’

  ‘They’re not. They’re fetching a demented girl to take to the bishop to see if he can exorcise her demons.’

  ‘That would be worth seeing.’

  Ivo nodded. He had seen plenty of exorcisms in his time. The shrieking and screaming was quite entertaining in its own way. As good as a hanging. This way, perhaps they’d have the exorcism and then the hanging later, both from the same girl. He was so taken up with his thoughts for a moment or two that he didn’t notice the man’s expression change suddenly.

  ‘What day is it?’

  Ivo shot a look at his mother. ‘St Catherine’s Day?’

  All knew of St Catherine of Alexandria. The noblewoman who refused to marry the emperor of Rome and defended her Christian faith even when they threatened to kill her on the wheel. She had disputed her religion with fifty philosophers and won, and had stood up for …

  Robinet stood as the realisation struck.

  ‘We must get to the cathedral!’

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Exeter Cathedral

  Baldwin and Simon had a leisurely walk to the cathedral after their breakfast. Already the grounds before the great church had started to fill with city folk ready to join the Sabbath celebrations.

  Practically every day of the year had its own saint to revere, and Baldwin knew that keeping abreast of which was due for honour on any day was a task that exercised some of the finest minds in Christendom. At the cathedral there was a good man who was paid a gallon of wine to call out all the different relics that were held there on the Monday after Ascension each year. It was a task that demanded a degree of perseverance on the part of the annueller concerned, calling out the piece of Mary’s pillow, the splinter of the True Cross, the oil of St Catherine and all the other bits and pieces that made up the great treasury owned by the cathedral. The number of relics made Exeter a place of pilgrimage for people from all over the west country.

  All too soon Baldwin saw the first of the black-robed canons appearing in his doorway as the bells began to ring, and then all the houses in Canon’s Row disgorged their occupants. Entire households stood in the road, with the processions being decided by rank and authority: canon first, then vicars, annuellers, novices, servants, all clad in their robes ready for the service. They stepped over the open sewer that ran between their houses and the cemetery, and began to cross the grassy plain. A hog and two horses moved out of their way as the men passed around the new building work, avoiding the great stones lying all about, and making their way to the southern entrance. Only when all the choir had already entered did the rest of the congregation follow.

  Inside it was serene, an odd silence compared with the anticipated noise of a working building site. None of the workmen was allowed to continue on the day of rest.

  Baldwin and the others made their way to the northern side of the cathedral, where there was the altar dedicated to St Catherine, and stood about while the incense wafted and the singing of the choristers rose to the heavens.

  Bowing his head beneath his hood, Baldwin listened to the service in the choir. The music was marvellous, as always. Although he had travelled widely and knew the forms of celebrations in the more modern and contemporary churches of France, Galicia and Portugal, he still felt most at home here in English churches, with their more restrained, simple services. In other countries there was too much extravagance, he felt. The plainer customs in English services were more suitable.

  As always, the people standing all around were hooded and hatted respectfully. When the bishop came to raise the host up on high for all to see, they would bare their heads. There was a group of women near him, under the watchful gaze of a chaperon, while beyond them an older couple were sitting on folding chairs with leather seats and reading a book of hours together. The sole irritant to him was the woman behind him, who would keep up a relentless prayer for a son who had disappeared some years ago, which spoiled his concentration.

  And then he saw the man: Robinet.

  He was over at the southern wall with the watchman, Ivo. Baldwin recognised him immediately, and was angry to see the man here, flaunting his freedom in a church of God. It was shameful.

  ‘Look, Simon,’ he breathed. Simon followed his pointing finger and Baldwin saw his neck stiffen.

  ‘Where’s Sir Richard?’

  Ivo had tagged along reluctantly, but he wasn’t sure he understood what his companion was on about. There was some story about the man they’d tried to find yesterday actually being an assassin who was going to try to kill the bishop, which caught his attention, naturally enough. Where there was a job to be done saving a bishop’s life, there was also a good fee to be earned as reward. He was sure of that.

  But apparently the killer wouldn�
�t have to be nearby. Would not be getting up close with a knife or anything. No, he would be a little distance away – but near enough to see the bishop.

  ‘What, he going to use a bow in the cathedral?’

  ‘Not a bow, no. But something quite as deadly.’

  ‘As deadly as a bow?’ Ivo said doubtfully, squinting up at him.

  He didn’t answer. The necromancer had to be here somewhere. Not in with the congregation, not if he was going to strike right now … and he had to strike now. It was the only thing that made sense, attacking during this special celebration.

  There!

  It was a fleeting glimpse of blackness up at the top of the wall, where the new construction joined the older section of the building. A flash of black clerical cloth, nothing more, and it was that very movement that told him he was right. Any other man would have stood still and watched the service. Only a man seeking concealment would disappear like that.

  ‘He’s there.’

  Baldwin saw Robinet start to move towards the rear of the church, his eyes fixed skywards, and he turned to stare up, wondering what the retired king’s man had seen.

  ‘Simon!’

  ‘I see him!’

  The two pushed through the laity towards the back, but even as they moved they heard the door open and the steady tramping of the coroner’s feet, the petrified girl bound at his side, his hand on her arm to stop her bolting. Immediately attention was diverted, and people craned their necks to see what was happening, some few, who were better informed, telling others that this was the mad girl who’d killed that servant over near the West Gate.

  ‘Come on, Simon,’ Baldwin muttered as he shoved people from his path. Then, at the rear, he found a clearing, and he hurried over it. At the back of the church there was a ladder set up, and he came to it just as the girl was dragged to the altar. Baldwin cast a look over his shoulder, then began to climb. Reluctantly: he hated heights.

  It was fortunate that the ladder was only propped up against a lower section of the wall. While it looked high enough to Baldwin, and set his heart racing, there was a dread emptiness in his stomach as he looked overhead and saw how much higher the walls climbed.

  ‘Come on, then!’ Simon said enthusiastically as he reached Baldwin.

  ‘Yes. Yes.’ Baldwin gathered his thoughts and his courage and took a deep breath before gritting his teeth and making his way along the wall to another ladder. This one took them up to another level, and now Baldwin did not dare to look down. The sound of singing and prayer came to him, but only dimly, because there was an unpleasant rushing sound in his ears. He heard a wailing cry, and it distracted him long enough to make him glance in its direction. There, before the altar, he saw Jen kneeling while the bishop set his hands upon her head, the coroner nearby, his head bowed, but his eyes fixed on the child.

  Turning away quickly, swallowing, Baldwin continued. There ahead he could see the king’s man, and now he searched about for any sign of their quarry.

  Up here, the walls were a mass of confusing blocks of stone. There was a great scaffold erected, with good poplar boughs lashed together, but the uneven nature of the building work made it difficult to see. The man could be anywhere along here, only a matter of feet away, and Baldwin would not spot him.

  But then he did. He saw a sandalled foot between two lumps of rock. John of Nottingham was the other side of them, sitting in a vantage point where no one could see him, but from where he could see all that was going on below.

  Baldwin signalled to Simon, and began to creep nearer.

  It was perfect up here. John of Nottingham smiled to himself as he drew out the figure and gazed at it, wiping the brow smooth with a rough thumb. Down below, there was a sudden hiss and rush as all the congregation bowed their heads and pulled off hats or drew back their hoods, and the bishop lifted his hands high overhead with the host, praying.

  John took the small antler pin from his purse and waited a moment, then set it at the figure’s temple. He peered down again, and slowly pushed it into the waxen head.

  At first he would have said that nothing appeared to happen. The bishop continued his prayer loudly, unfalteringly, and with determination, but then, as John pushed the pin all the way in, and felt the point at the far side of the skull, he was sure that he saw the bishop stumble over a few words. The host was set down on the table, and the bishop shook his head. Yes! It was working.

  The efficacy was proved. He took out the pin, and held it over the figure’s heart. Uttering a prayer of his own for the success of his effort, he was about to push it in when there was a scrape of rubble behind him. It urged him on, and the pin had just begun to penetrate the breast when a bright blue steel blade appeared in front of him. It flicked, and the pin was jerked from his hand, to whirl over and over, away from him, down to the floor.

  ‘No-o-o!’

  ‘Keep still, man, or you’ll be joining it,’ Baldwin said. ‘Come round here, and don’t be foolish.’

  John was staring down in dismay. There was nothing on him. Nothing at all – not even a little knife to stab at the thing in his hands. Yet he must … he took the figure in his hands, and slammed it down on the edge of the wall in front of him. The head was dented badly. He did it again, and the head snapped off, falling to bounce on the floor of the cathedral.

  ‘There!’

  Ivo was behind Robinet when they both heard the voices behind them. Robinet stared, and then his brow cleared as he saw how he had walked past John without seeing him. He started off in a hurry, and almost knocked Ivo down as he hurtled along the wall to where John knelt, smiling up at Baldwin.

  ‘Well done, Sir Baldwin. Where are the other dolls, though?’

  Baldwin reached round the stone and gripped John’s tunic. Pulling hard, he half pulled, half lifted the older man back to the more solid base of the cathedral wall. ‘Where are they, John? You are John of Nottingham?’

  ‘Yes. I am John, but I see no reason to help you. The others will be destroyed in time. You cannot stop me and my friends.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why do you think! Because of the injustice daily perpetrated by those miserable bastards. The king was a supposititious child. You only have to look at his unnatural activities to see that! Look at his lovers. Forsaking his own wife he consorts with hedgers and ditchers, dancers and play-actors! And then he gives up the riches of this sovereign realm to his advisers the Despensers, and richly rewards the thieves. And asks your Bishop Stapledon to spy on the queen. Did you know that?’

  ‘Enough! Come on, you’re coming down with us. You have many questions to answer,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ John stared at him, a thin, gaunt man with a face like a skull. Baldwin could feel the strength of the man’s intelligence as he met that firm gaze. It was almost as though John was trying to work upon Baldwin silently, by the power of his thoughts. It was alarming to see how he strained, as though by the mere exercise of will he could force Baldwin to change his mind and release him. A vein throbbed in his temple, and he brought his head down slightly, as though to add to the intensity of his stare.

  It made Baldwin smile to see it. ‘You may as well relax your overworked features, John. I do not succumb to witchcraft.’

  They reached the ladder in short order, and Simon, knowing how Baldwin felt about heights, volunteered to climb down it first. He went, and when he was almost at the bottom, Baldwin and Ivo pushed the sorcerer towards it, Baldwin sheathing his sword ready for his own descent.

  Suddenly John spun round, his fist catching Ivo full in the face. The watchman fell back, and would have toppled over the edge but for the attention of Robinet, who caught him and whirled him round, using his weight to pull him back towards the safety of the wall. Baldwin saw it, and his hand was on his sword-handle, but before he could reach it he felt something whip round his neck. It was a fine cord or thong, and on one end was fixed a small lead weight, so that it encircled his throat. Immediately John grabbed the se
cond end and started to pull tight, strangling Baldwin.

  If he had done that from behind, Baldwin would have been fearful for his life, but as it was, he took hold of John’s hands and forced the older man to loosen his grip. Crossing John’s wrists, he lifted them until the cord was over his head. ‘It’s too late for that.’

  John responded by dropping the thong and grabbing at Baldwin’s belt. The old man was astonishingly powerful for one so frail and thin, and he wrestled Baldwin towards the edge of the wall.

  ‘Baldwin!’ he heard Simon shout, but he had his mind on other things. He threw himself bodily backwards to the wall, striking his head on a stone, and suddenly he felt a great lassitude overwhelming him. There was a roaring in his ears, and his head was swollen, so he thought, to double or more its usual size. He was aware of being dragged a little, and then he realised that John had thrown himself over the edge of the wall, and his weight was pulling Baldwin towards the abyss.

  ‘No!’ he roared, scrabbling with his feet for any purchase, but they were already over the edge. There was nothing for them to grip. His hands were scratched as he tried to cling to the bare rocks, but the new dressing was so precise that he could gain no hold. Inexorably he felt himself sliding towards the edge and certain death on the floor below.

  And then he saw Robinet at his side. Robinet drew Baldwin’s sword and hacked down. There was a short scream, and Baldwin glanced down to see the bloody stump of John’s left forearm waving, blood flicking in an obscene fountain. Still clinging to Baldwin’s belt with his right hand, John stared up, and saw Robinet. ‘Tell Matthew I shall see him with you in hell!’

  The sword flashed down again. There was a spurt of blood that sprayed up and over Baldwin’s face, then a hideous, damp sound.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  The Bishop’s Palace

  The bishop felt his headache begin to reduce as he sipped his wine. ‘It was most peculiar,’ he admitted.

  Baldwin could say nothing to that. He was still only too aware of the great height from which he had nearly fallen. When he had reached the ground eventually, which had taken him some time, the ladder did bounce so, he had been confronted with the body of John of Nottingham, a tortured figure, oddly shrunken. At first Baldwin thought it was his headache and the sensation of sickness. Only later did he see that the man’s leg bones had been thrust upward until they protruded from his torso, so immense had been the violence of his fall. It was Ivo who pulled the two hands from Baldwin’s belt and threw them after their owner. Now the groin of his tunic was damp from the spurting blood as they had parted from John’s body.